kneeling at her feet, had turned his attention to the tumbled baking tins not far from her on the floor.
“Yer skirt,” he tossed absently over his shoulder.
She glanced down at the front of her gown. “It’s ruined.” She pulled at the soaked fabric. Who was this impertinent man?
“Better a bit of silk and lace than yerself, I’d say.” He stopped examining the charred concoction on the floor and looked up at her again, inquiry shadowing his deep blue eyes. “Ye are all right, aren’t ye?”
“Of course, I’m all right.” She just wished she could say the same for her gown, her new boots, and her creation. “Why shouldn’t I”—she started to say as he stood—“be,” she finished after swallowing. Goodness he was tall and broad-shouldered, dwarfing her not petite height which, of course, was no reason for her tongue to trip over itself.
“Yer hem was afire,” he said simply.
“I don’t understand how that could happen.” She bent forward, gathering up yards of silk. “I was so careful not to get too close to the flames.”
He shrugged as if to say she could see the proof herself which she did in the form of wet, seared yellow silk.
“Well, it must have happened when you came toward me. When l looked around,” she added.
Again he just shrugged, a gesture she was beginning to find annoying. He used her fire-fighting towel to lift one of the pans containing the burned remains of her afternoon’s work.
“What was it?” he asked, giving her that smile again.
“A cake,” she answered, grabbing the pan and burning her palm. She did her best to muffle her gasp of pain.
“ ’Tis still hot,” he told her... a bit too late in her opinion, but she thanked him anyway. The tilt of his head showed he doubted her expression of gratitude.
“Here, let me see.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.” But her words did not stop him from prying her fingers open to examine her palm. His hands were large, sun-darkened, and surprisingly gentle.
“Doesn’t look too bad, a bit red is all.”
“Are you a physician, then?”
He surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed, a deep booming sound that made Biddy, cowering by the doorway, look up. “Hardly,” he answered. “Just a man who’s seen his share of burns and scrapes.”
Cinnamon managed a half-smile. “How interesting.” He still held her hand, which wasn’t unpleasant but was highly improper, as was this meeting. She pulled her hand free, then surveyed the puddled, soggy, burned cake with a sigh.
“I wouldn’t think they’ll be too angry with ye.”
She lifted her wet skirt as she stepped around him, then paused and caught his eye. “Who?”
“Why, your employers, lass. Though I’ve been told Mrs. Murphy can be a bit demanding, the old captain seems right enough.”
Cinnamon lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, really? That’s what you’ve heard?”
“Aye.” He smiled down at her. “But then ye would know better than I.”
“Yes, I imagine I would,” she agreed, amused despite his forthright comments about her parents. He thought she was the cook—in a silk gown and kid boots?
“And perhaps they won’t find out,” he said, waving aside some lingering smoke. “I know for a fact that Mr. Murphy is not at home, or at least he wasn’t ten minutes ago.”
“And just how do you know that about my... my employer?” Cinnamon ignored Biddy’s startled gasp.
“I have an appointment with him in the library,” he added a bit pompously. Then his eyes widened as if he just realized what he’d said. He muttered a curse, then a quick apology. “I’d like to stay and help ye clean up the mess”—he ineffectively swiped at the water stains on his trousers—“but I fear I may be late for my appointment. Even though it was Mr. Murphy himself who was tardy to begin with. But I suppose schedules are different for the wealthy,” he said, grinning.
“You’re probably right.” Cinnamon gave him her best smile. He really was handsome. She couldn’t help adding, “You won’t be telling Mr. Murphy what I did now, will you? I mean the fire and all.”
“Well, I suppose I could be persuaded not to mention what I know—for a price.”
“A price?” She cocked her head, looking at him through her lashes. Did he mean to extort money from her? Perhaps he did know who she was. Perhaps he had finally realized that no cook would be wearing yellow silk and kid boots. “Whatever could that be?”
He rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. “A kiss would no